The Art of Love Read online

  The Art of Love

  Gayla Twist

  Copyright © 2013 Adrianne Ambrose

  All rights reserved.

  For all legal information, please see the end of this title.

  As always, for my darling Q

  Thank you so much to Lisa Scott, Kimberly O'Hara Nunez and Jill Beaton

  Cover illustration and design by Sally Jane Thompson

  Cover fonts include: Shanghai (PrimaFont American Collection), Londrina (Marcelo Magalhães).

  Chapter 1

  “How many times do I tell you? Why do you make me yell? You do not do zis your way or zee way in some fancy cookbook. You do zis zee Escoffier way!”

  That’s my boss, Chef Escoffier, giving the kitchen staff his daily motivational speech. It doesn’t matter that everyone at Bouche is working flat out getting ready for the dinner rush, he still feels compelled to shout at us. I’ve read that it’s not productive to yell at people in an attempt to make them work harder because they’ll just focus on the yelling and not on whatever task they’re supposed to get done. Escoffier, apparently, hasn’t read the same article.

  If you could see a picture of Escoffier, you’d think he was a good-natured, dapper little Frenchman. He’s about five foot five with a luxurious silver mustache and thinning silver hair. You can tell he doesn’t do much actual cooking anymore by his prosperous tummy, which makes him look positively jovial. I’ve heard people say, “Never trust a skinny chef,” but by rule of thumb, skinny chefs are the ones in the trenches working hard; fat chefs are “managing” from a distance, preferring to rub elbows with the higher-end customers and sampling more food than they cook. Pastry chefs are an exception to this rule, but that’s a hazard of their chosen specialty.

  Don’t think Chef Escoffier is particularly that much of a tyrant. I’ve been working in the restaurant industry my entire life, and it’s a common characteristic that most chefs like to lose their temper at least a dozen times a day. They don’t even view it as losing their temper; they just view it as working. This habit doesn’t make for the most pleasant working environment, but it does build a certain kind of camaraderie amongst the staff.

  The thing that’s so challenging about working under Escoffier is that he’s inconsistent with both his praise and his tirades. Sometimes you’ll think you’ve been working hard and deserve a crumb or two of kindness, but he finds some minor fault with your work and lets fly with a giant tantrum. Other times, when you’ve screwed up royally and you’re sure the ax is going to fall, he pets and praises you like a favorite child. It makes it difficult to relax and actually get any work done.

  I work at Bouche, which is the restaurant for the Winchell Hotel. Our website’s landing page starts out with, "Welcome to Chicago’s historic Winchell Hotel. The Winchell has been the home away from home for presidents, diplomats, royalty, and celebrities since 1923." This is mostly true. The Winchell is one of the nicer hotels in downtown Chicago, and it has been around to the point that its interior has passed from looking dated to being called classic. As for the restaurant, if you go by our website, "The crown jewel of the Winchell is the world-renowned Bouche Restaurant featuring the culinary delights of Master Chef Escoffier." This part of the website isn’t so true.

  Dining at Bouche used to be a big deal back in the eighties, when your average schlub could still be considered edgy by overpaying for a burger at the Hard Rock Café. The interior of Bouche has received one or two facelifts over the years, so that’s not so bad, but Escoffier hasn’t bothered to change the menu since blue eyeliner was in fashion. Lobster thermidor and prime rib au jus aren’t considered the elegant specialties they were thirty years ago. Our current clientele consists mostly of middle-aged out-of-towners who remember the restaurant’s reputation from when they were young and Bouche was considered a national hot spot. I wasn’t even on the planet when that was the case. These days, most Chicagoans consider Bouche a bit of a dinosaur and silently shake their heads when their aunt comes for a visit from Muncie, Indiana, and insists on dining there. I know it, and most of the Bouche staff knows it. Unfortunately, Escoffier and the Winchell family probably haven’t quite come to that realization yet, and we’ve got the plunging receipts to prove it.

  Once Escoffier has finished motivating the staff in general, he usually likes to make the rounds, giving each one of us a stinging slice of his expert opinion. I especially hate this part of the day. I know he criticizes everyone, but when he has me in his sites, I always feel like I’m back in middle school being verbally savaged by Miss Todd, the sadistic phys ed teacher who desperately wanted to be “in” with the popular girls and realized humiliating the rest of us was the fast track to accomplishing her goal. It’s that level of embarrassment.

  Today, Escoffier starts with Aspic, who is standing at the butcher block hacking off chunks of meat with a cleaver so large that it could easily be featured as a sociopath’s weapon of choice in a slasher movie. Aspic is huge with a swarthy complexion, shaved head, and an over-sized black mustache perched beneath a sizable hook nose. He consistently wears a blood-splattered chef's jacket with the sleeves ripped off revealing his brawny, tattooed arms and an equally red-spattered apron around his waist. Large, gold hoop earrings dangle from both ears, and his eyes are so crowded out by his other features that they look like two shiny black buttons. Most people with any common sense would think it unadvisable to provoke such a mountain of a man who has hands like meat hooks and is usually clutching some kind of giant edged implement, but Chef Escoffier has no such compunction.

  “Aspic! Why do you make zee cuts like zhis? You are bruising zee meat!”

  Fortunately for our mighty leader, Aspic is a gentle man who rarely speaks and, as far as I know, has never crushed a human skull with is bare hands, even if, at times, it seems warranted.

  Next Escoffier turns his attentions to Paolo, who is from Milan, Italy. He’s a small, lean man with long, dark-blond hair usually pulled into a low ponytail. He wears his toque flattened on his head and cocked rakishly to one side like he’s about to lead an assault on Versailles during the French revolution. His eyebrows could double as well-fed caterpillars except one has a noticeable slash through it, which gives his face a hint of lawlessness. Paolo likes to leave his chef’s jacket unbuttoned and hanging open, revealing a tank top underneath, which does a poor job concealing the man's unreasonable amount of chest hair. In contrast, his apron is always tied low and snug around his small hips. His eyes are hazel, and he has somehow mastered the ability to chop onions without starting to tear, a feat that I have yet to accomplish. Despite Paolo’s obvious skills, Escoffier lays into him with, “You know nothing about zee onion, Paolo! If you can cut zhis without zee tear zen you are doing it wrong!”

  After attacking Italy, Escoffier turns his aggressions toward the Philippines and my friend June, who is at a prep station busily using a chef’s knife to mince parsley. June is curvy with giant brown eyes and long kinky hair that she wears piled high on top of her head and holds in place with a large, colorful scarf which covers half her forehead. Add to that the many bangles lining both her forearms and the gold ring piercing her nose and she looks more like a gypsy queen than an underpaid prep cook.

  Escoffier bends low to examine the way June is rocking the blade of her knife rapidly over the parsley. “Little, little, little,” he chastises. “You do not work at some American ‘amburger joint. You must caress zee parsley with zee blade.” Previously, comments like this would have had June all riled up for the rest of the night, but she’s been dating a yoga instructor lately and trying to be more Zen about Escoffier’s compulsive need to criticize.

  In general, the Bouche staff looks more like the crew of a poorly funded pirate movie than people creating
fine cuisine for the middle classes expecting a fancy night on the town. Everyone except me, of course. I don’t have any tattoos, and the only body parts I have pierced are my ears. My dad is from Hong Kong, and my mom is Irish-American, so I look kind of like a watered-down Lucy Liu. I keep my chef’s jacket clean, my long, black hair pulled back in a low bun on my neck, and my toque, which is starched to perfection, perched at the crown of my head. I know it’s a style of hat that looks reminiscent of the fancy paper accents they used to use for camouflaging the protruding bones on racks of lamb, but it’s tradition, and I have a strong need for a little formality in my life. It makes me feel in control while trying to survive the daily chaos that is a restaurant kitchen.

  Chef Escoffier finally zeroes in on me as I chop vegetables for the dinner specials. I’ve been trying to focus on my task instead of sweating and dreading his gaze, but it isn’t easy. I’ve noticed Escoffier looking at me from across the kitchen since I showed up for work this afternoon, and that’s never a good sign. I’ve been racking my brain for any blunder, large or minute, that I may have committed in the past twenty-four hours, but I can’t think of anything. That doesn’t mean I’m in the clear. Escoffier might alight on some random problem in the kitchen in general and decide I am to blame, just to have a reason to vent his spleen. It’s a lot like living with an abusive husband, if the movies I watch on Lifetime as a guilty pleasure are at all accurate.

  Under normal circumstances, I like chopping vegetables. I like the rhythm of the sharp knife slicing through a carrot again and again with the small thud it makes each time it hits the chopping board. It centers me as I try to focus on dicing as much food as I can as quickly as possible. Of course, with Escoffier looming over me like a French vulture waiting for its victim to die of thirst, it makes going fast much more challenging and puts the tips of my fingers at risk.

  After staring at my chopping technique for almost a full minute, Escoffier finally says, “You see, Escoffier can tell by zee way you hold zee knife zhat you go to zee good culinary school. Not zee best school, but still good.” By the chef’s standards, this is considered a high compliment. But after a moment of letting me bask in his praise, relief washing over me, he has to temper his words by adding, “Of course, you are not as good as Escoffier, but it is not bad.”

  He continues to study me for another good thirty seconds, and I start to fear that he’s going to pull a change-up and still nail me to the wall. The man’s temper can turn on a dime. As I continue to chop, a slice of carrot falls off the cutting board, bounces twice, and rolls across the floor. I feel the carrot wheel falling in slow motion and wince as it hits the ground, wobbling toward the stoves. It’s just a carrot slice. But if Escoffier wants to make a big deal out of it, it’s easy to see which way he’ll go. Either I’m wasting food and costing Bouche money or I’m creating a kitchen hazard on which someone could slip. As the carrot smacks into the stove and spins to a halt, I can’t even look in the chef’s direction to see if his eyes are bulging. A few seconds tick by much slower than normal seconds. “Not today,” I think to myself. “Can I please just have a break today?”

  Something catches Escoffier’s attention from across the room, and he limps off to harass some other hapless soul while shouting, “I see what you are doing over zhere!” Escoffier has a bad right foot, so he sometimes has to walk with a cane, but that still doesn’t keep him from stomping around like a little Napoleon. I let out a sigh of relief, not even realizing I was holding my breath.

  The hands of the clock on the wall above where employees are required to punch in and out advance one minute to exactly five o’clock. I set my knife down and quickly organize my prep station to leave for the day. I don’t normally get to leave so early, but I requested the time off weeks ago for a special occasion. “See you guys tomorrow,” I call as I head into the locker room to change. I can feel the anxious stares of Aspic, Paolo, and June following me, but I do my best to ignore them.

  As I pull my clothes from my locker, I try to strengthen my resolve. I know it will only be a few moments before my co-workers send someone after me. More than likely, it’ll be June. I can almost see Aspic’s and Paolo’s faces, making pleading eyes and urging June to come in and try to shanghai me into prepping for at least another hour. When I hear footsteps entering the locker room, I don’t even have to turn around to know it’s her.

  “Sue?” she says in a hopeful voice, walking over to me.

  “June,” I say back. And then, despite all of my mental prep, I add, “Is something wrong?” I want to kick myself once the words have escaped my mouth. I don’t know what it is about me, but I have this uncontrollable need to be helpful. I’m the person you call when your babysitter cancels at the last moment or when you’re moving and want someone to help you bubble wrap the entire contents of your kitchen. I don’t know why I’m like this because it never pays off by providing me with loyal friends or people who will lend me a hand when I’m in a tight spot. As a matter of fact, I always feel like people are less likely to return the favor because they know, even if they don’t reciprocate when I’m in need, they’ll be able to weasel another favor out of me whenever some new crisis pops up. Yes, this makes me kind of pathetic, and I’m working on it, but like I said, it’s my nature, and there’s nothing more challenging than trying to change your nature.

  I wait patiently for the hammer to fall, where June asks me to stay a few more hours and help with prep. But instead, her eyes look past me and probe the contents of my locker. “Wow, do you actually read all of these?” she asks, stepping around me and examining the half dozen self-help books I have stashed in there. She scans the titles, reading them out loud. “Choose Love, Why Nice Girls Date Jerks, Men You Hate to Love, How to Read Men's Minds.” She raises one eyebrow. “Seriously, these are yours? You read this stuff?”

  “Um... yeah.” I blush. She’s looking at me like I’m a complete moron, and that’s currently the way I feel.

  June pulls out one of my books, flips it over to scan the back, scrunches her nose as if the book itself smells bad, and asks, “Why?”

  “Well...” I can feel my face is bright red. I should know better than to bring my books to work. “You know. To figure out how to date.”

  Making a little disgusted grunt in the back of her throat, June says, “People don't need instruction manuals to date.”

  I am living proof that her statement is patently not true. “Some of us do,” I mumble.

  Thrusting Why Nice Girls Date Jerks back at me, she insists, “Trust me, you don't. This kind of stuff just clutters up your brain with crap.”

  Her comment is laughable because I know for a fact that she’s addicted to watching daytime soaps, but of course, I say nothing.

  Remembering her mission, June turns to face me squarely. “Listen, Carlos called in sick, and we're going to be in the weeds pretty soon. Can you stay, like, another hour and help with prep?” She adds pleading eyes to her words to ensure she’s really suckered me in.

  Someone is eavesdropping in the doorway; I can see a shadow. But it isn’t a giant, hulking shadow, so I assume it is Paolo rather than Aspic.

  “Pretty please?” June clasps both her hands together in a false gesture of begging.

  Normally, I would cave immediately; it’s not like I have much of a social life anyway, but tonight is different. And if June ever paid any attention to my life at all, she would know it’s different. “Any other night, you know I would,” I tell her. “But it's my birthday.”

  “It’s your birthday?” I can tell by her face that she genuinely has no idea, even though I mentioned it yesterday and a couple of times last week.

  “Yes.” I confirm the information, doing my best to make my voice firm. “Elliot's taking me out for a special dinner. I'm meeting him at the hotel bar in like, twenty minutes.”

  “Elliot?” June does little to conceal her disgust for my boyfriend of the last year. “Come on! That guy wasn't on time for his own birth.”


  She has me there. Elliot is impossible when it comes to being any place on time. He’ll even show up to job interviews a half hour late and then complain when he doesn’t get hired. Still, this time will be different. “It's my birthday,” I explain. “He'll be there. He promised.”

  June shakes her head. “After he's left you sitting at the bar alone for two hours.”

  It’s true. Two hours is not an unheard-of amount of time for my boyfriend to keep me waiting. Not on my birthday, of course, but in general. “We talked about that. I explained to him that when he leaves me waiting it hurts my feelings.” I can tell June is about to say something snide, so I quickly add, “And he's agreed that he's not going to do it anymore.”

  June rolls her eyes. “Did you get that advice out of one of these books?” She waves a dismissive hand toward my still-open locker.

  I really, really wish I hadn’t brought my boyfriend homework to Bouche with me, but I need something to do when I’m on break. I want to deny that it’s book advice, but she’s seen through me so clearly that all I can manage is, “Uh...”

  Shaking her head, June leans forward to confide in me. “Well, here's some legit dating advice that actually works. The next time he's two hours late, you kick him in the ass repeatedly and tell him you're not his doormat.”

  This strikes a nerve. “I'm not a doormat!” I exclaim. “No one thinks that, do they?” Okay, it’s my secret fear that everyone thinks I’m a doormat, but I’m seriously not. I’m just one of those people who are a little too accommodating.

  June doesn’t reply immediately to reassure me of my non–doormat-like status. In fact, she looks a little torn between telling me her real opinion and soothing my ego. “Well…” she begins, but then her eyes shift toward the door. The lurker has decided to enter the room.